Tioga Sunrise and the Fringe
by Hannibal the Animal
Summary: The sequel to the AU fic "Tioga Sunrise". Astrid Farnsworth, Peter Bishop, Walter Bishop, Olivia Dunham
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter Title: **_Chapter 01_

**Chapter Genre:** _Friendship/Family, Humour, Mystery_

**Chapter Rating:** _PG-13_

**Chapter Notes: **_A wonderful new chapter to get us into the flow of things. And keep your eyes open, because you never know whom you might see!_

**Story Description: **_"Tioga Sunrise—The only Pattern here is on Walter's paisley shirt."_

**Disclaimer:** _This shit is pretty AU, so take it in stride._

* * *

Daybreak arrived at Sunrise Cabins in the typical beautiful, quiet way it did every morning. Cabin 14, the cabin second furthest away from the dirt road leading up to the settlement, had four occupants whom were stirring as sunlight began pour into the rustic building. It was the largest cabin out of the fifteen with two bedrooms and an open loft above the kitchen/dining room, a magnificent high ceiling and large windows on the back, facing out west to the forest. It was definitely built for the snooty flatlanders that came to vacation, but that was perfect for the four city folk that now resided in it.

Located fifteen miles away from the little village of Wawona, Sunrise Cabins was inside Yosemite National Park itself, beautiful and isolated. The front door of the cabin opened and in the chilly early-October, out stepped former Lieutenant Peter Bishop, donned in a heavy pink chenille bathrobe. In one hand he held a coffee mug with hot, black coffee and with his feet bare, he hurried out to the letterbox in front of the cabin, where a local boy had just delivered the day's LA Times. The chenille bathrobe was simply the first thing he had grabbed—Peter wasn't much of a pink person.

A flyer for the last days of the Mariposa Farmer's Market, the local newspaper, the Times, another flyer from the Park Service warning about fee increases at the Tioga Pass toll booth. Nothing of real interest, though he was secretly excited to get a new crossword puzzle to work on. He sipped on his mug of coffee as he faced eastwards and looked at the fading pink glow coming up over the tops of the mountains. Sunrise in both Massachusetts and Iraq couldn't compare to what he was seeing now and even though he was on the run, he could honestly say that he couldn't have picked a better place.

The sound of a screen door to his right broke him from his thoughts. He looked over and there Mr. September, the owner of Sunrise Cabins, walking out to his own letterbox. Now, Mr. September was definitely unusual both in appearance and in character. He looked eerie with his unblinking stares and expressionless face, which was only accentuated with his bald head, and lack of eyebrows and eyelashes. Peter had never seen him show emotion, which was very unsettling for him, given how hothead he himself was and how animated his three housemates were.

"Morning, Mr. September," Peter greeted.

Mr. September paused in the handling of his own post and didn't answer, just gave him that empty stare.

"Nice weather we're having," Peter added nervously.

Mr. September nodded slowly.

"Warm for this time of year," the man offered and Peter took it as his turn to nod.

Peter watched as September walked back into the cabin, wondering what the story was behind the strange man and jumped as he felt something nudge his back.

"Hey," Olivia Dunham greeted, her arms crossed and hands tucked into her armpits.

She was wearing her running clothes, black running leggings and a vibrant orange fleece jacket.

"Is that saran wrap on your head?" he asked, noticing a hint of clear material peaking out from under her tuque.

She grinned at him. "It helps the dye set in."

"What dye? Are you colouring your hair?" he asked quickly, offering her a sip from the coffee mug.

She drank as he held the cup to her lips and shrugged her shoulders. "I'm dying it back to its natural colour."

"Which is…?"

"Blonde."

"You're a blonde?"

"Yeah. I dyed my hair brown because perps weren't taking me seriously."

He let that settle for a moment then nodded. "You'll look good."

"Thanks," she said softly, still smiling.

Peter wanted to say more, but Astrid Farnsworth had appeared from the cabin, in her running clothes as well. Olivia's attention shifted from him to the other woman and she asked, "Ready?"

"Let's go! See you in half an hour, Peter!" Astrid called back over her shoulder as they took off jogging down the dirt road.

He waved then realised how cold his toes were, so he hurried back to the cabin. Cabin 14, haven for the four of them, was thankfully very warm from the fire place and the efficient solar panels Mr. September had installed to power the heaters. He wiped his feet off on the rug just inside the doorway and decided if he didn't have to worry about the girls laughing, he'd wear the bathrobe a little longer. It was warm, after all.

His father, Dr. Walter Bishop, sat at the kitchen's island counter. He looked rather bored, his head leaning on his propped hand while he toyed with a pen laying on the Formica surface.

"Walter, what are you doing?" Peter asked as he pulled the sports section of the Times out and handed it to him.

His eyes shifted over to him. "Waiting. Ostrich was supposed to make pancakes."

Peter sat down at the island as well, glancing at the cover page of the newspaper. "_Astrid_ always makes them when she returns from her run. You know that,"

This information seemed to do nothing for the older man, who let out a sigh and knocked the pen to the wood floor, ignoring it. Peter rolled his eyes and looked at picture of Barack Obama—the political campaign was really picking up and while he read the headline article, he toyed with the dog tags he still wore. Walter let out another sigh, this time a little louder and dramatic, obviously trying to get his attention; even though Walter was big on theatric ways to get a person's interest, he was very respectful to someone who was reading.

Peter decided he was going to ignore him for the moment and when he was sure that his father's attention had returned to the pen on the floor (which he was now kicking around with his wool-socked toes), he glanced up. There was a single candle in the fireplace that Walter kept lit and while he had never directly said what it was for, Peter knew that is was a memento mori for the young lab assistant's death that had had him locked up in the first place.

"The candle's low," Peter said quietly, returning his eyes to the paper so as to give his father privacy.

"Oh!"

His father jumped up from his seat, letting the sport's section fall to the floor as he moved to the fireplace. He muttered softly and Peter watched him from over the top of his newspaper, curious and also a bit sad. Olivia and Astrid had no idea about the lab assistant's death and his father's subsequent imprisonment in St. Claire's.

Peter shuddered. The thought alone of St. Claire's made the hair on the back of his neck stand up—the damn place had actually given him nightmares and he hadn't even been locked up in there.

In had been over a month since Peter had managed to sneak his father out, using his survival skills as both a soldier and as someone who had to run from people in the "wrong crowd". It had been complicated, dangerous, and incredibly stressful, but he'd be damned if he let his father remain another moment in that nightmare. They had raided the pharmacy, filling almost three duffle bags with hundreds of medicines and prescriptions—Walter because he had always had kleptomaniac tendencies and Peter because he figured the drugs could be used to fund their new life on the run. They had recovered the old family car from a storage unit on the edge of town and had headed west, where three days later they had met Olivia and Astrid, two other newly fugitived people.

Something soft and warm rubbed against his ankles and he looked down, smiling.

"Good morning, Whitman. How are you this morning?" he asked as he set the paper down and picked the feline up.

Walt Whitman was the fifth member of their group, and undoubtedly the most laid back. While Olivia and Astrid shared the loft that was directly above the kitchen, Peter had decided that he would NOT be sharing one of the already cramped bedrooms with his father, which led to daily arguments and Walter sneaking in to try and share the twin-sized mattress with him. The problem was finally resolved a week into their stay when they adopted Walt Whitman, a grey tabby they had found wandering around the cabins; after two flea baths (and one for Walter), Whitman began sharing a room with Walter, sleeping on the pillow next to his head.

Whitman headbutt Peter's stomach all the while purring and kneading his paws into his lap. Peter had only had one pet as a child, Rufus, and even though he had never thought of himself as an animal person, he secretly adored the cat as much as everyone here did. He smiled and scratched the furry head.

A new day had indeed arrived at Cabin 14.

* * *

Astrid had to admit, having a welcoming committee waiting for her every morning was both flattering and something she looked forward to; she had never had someone so excited to see her, even if it was only Peter's father and the groups' cat.

"You're back!" Dr. Bishop shouted cheerfully as she walked back into the cabin.

She was sweaty and out of breath, so she held her hand up to stop him from pestering her. "I'm going to shower, so you need to wait a few more minutes."

"I've _been_ waiting," he said, sounding irritated as he crossed his arms across his chest.

"Walter," Peter warned.

"I'll be seven minutes. Ten minutes tops, I promise. I'm just as hungry as you," she promised.

"Fine," he agreed, but she could see he was happy to know when to expect his sugary breakfast.

True to her word, she managed her shower in eight and half minutes. Her wet curls wrapped up in a towel and now wearing a pair of Wranglers and a warm sweater, she returned to kitchen as Astrid: Designated Chef. It wasn't a role she had originally intended to have, but Olivia could barely manage boiling water while Peter would have them eat grilled cheese sandwiches for all three meals. And Dr. Bishop would probably feed them ice cream and cookies for breakfast or berries and grubs he had found outside, so she put her Home EC classes to good use and acted as the group's cook.

On the Formica island counter, Dr. Bishop had already set out all the supplies necessary for the pancakes, including a new ingredient.

"You want chocolate chips, Dr. B?" she asked as she began to measure out of the flour into a glass mixing bowl

"Yes! In a smile!" he instructed. "And don't make any eyebrows!"

"So what's the plan for the Fringe today?" Olivia asked as she sat down at the island.

"Can we stop calling ourselves the Fringe?" Peter begged. "It makes me feel like we should be in a tree house with decoder rings."

"Don't forget to drink your Oveltine," Dr. Bishop said as he picked out a chocolate chip from the bag.

"Decoder rings would be really fun," Astrid admitted with a bit of humour.

Dr. Bishop was busy melting the chocolate between his fingers. "I'll make you one, if you'd like."

"Stop gawking at her, Walter," Peter ordered, sounding irritated.

"Let's make a run to the market in Mariposa. I want to make sure we have enough pancake mix for the winter," his father said as he handed her the milk. "And cat food." And then with some afterthought, "And supplies for decoder rings."

"I always wanted a decoder ring," Olivia said thoughtfully. "Astrid, if you keep cooking, I'm gonna get fat."

"I would happily get fat on these pancakes," Peter said as Astrid began to mix up the batter.

"Thank you."

Olivia jumped up from her seat. "Oh! It's time for me to wash this out!"

"Can't wait to see the results!" Astrid called after the former police officer as she turned on the stovetop to preheat the griddle.

Peter chuckled, then stood up as well. "Hey, I'm going to go get out of this and get dressed."

"No problem," she said and watched the retreating form of the soldier-clad-in-pink-chenille-robe.

Now it was just she and the doctor, who was allowing the cat to wander across the counter. "Behave, Whitman," he scolded. "You know she doesn't like it when you walk on the counter."

"I had a cat back in Boston," she admitted softly, pausing in the mixing to watch the feline.

"What was his name?" Dr. Bishop asked in a childlike manner.

Astrid watched the tabby rubbing happily against the man's hands. "Mittens. And Mittens was a she."

He looked up at her. "Where is your cat, Aspirin?"

"Dead." Her eyes watered slightly and she turned her focus back to making pancakes. "Dead."

"Was Mittens a good cat?" he asked curiously.

"Yeah," she said with a sigh.

"Walt is a good cat, too," he said finally picking the cat up and placing it on the floor.

"Yeah," she agreed with a laugh, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

"Please tell me you're ready to start frying those pancakes up," Peter asked as he returned to the kitchen wearing work clothes.

"Just about—was that your stomach?" she asked with a laugh, her thoughts of Boston once again pushed into the back of her mind.

"Walter's not the only one starving," Peter said defensively.

"Smiley faces, please," Dr. Bishop requested again.

"Okay, okay," she said rolling her eyes and turned to the griddle.

The first stack of pancakes were decorated with friendly looking chocolate chip faces, which both men wolfed down as though they hadn't eaten in a long time. As Astrid started to cook the next batch, there was a knock on the back kitchen door and she leaned back to see whom it was. Mr. September stood there, donned in a warm fleece coat and scarf, holding up a bag of dried figs.

"C'mon in, Mr. September!" she called out happily, quickly pulling off the towel wrapped around her hair and set it on her seat.

Their strange landlord never smiled, at least not to her knowledge, but she was sure that he was happy when he was around their assorted conglomerate of strange fellows. He set the gift of preserved fruit on the counter and gave her a quick peck on the cheek; Astrid could say with confidence that he liked her because they both shared a very valuable secret about Walter Bishop. But that was another story for another time.

"_Boker tov, Astrid. Mah shlomech?_(Good morning Astrid. How are you?)" he asked her Hebrew in the mostly emotionless way he managed.

She nodded. "_Tov todah. Umah shlomecha?_(Good, thanks. And how are you?)"

"_Tov me'od todah_.(Very well, thanks.)" He turned to the two other men in the room. "Good morning, Walter and Peter. How are you?"

"Good," Peter said casually as he scraped his plate clean with his fork.

Dr. Bishop pulled out one of the stools for Mr. September to join him at the island. "Asphodel is making pancakes!"

"Shall I fix you a plate?" Astrid asked, flipping over the pancakes currently cooking.

"With curry and pepper in it, please."

"Sure." She looked over her shoulder. "Dr. Bishop, would you mind—"

"Already doing it!" he sang, pouring more pancake mix into a measuring cup.

"Peter, Walter, today I am expecting a delivery of wood. I thought we could spend the day chopping it while Olivia and Astrid finished working in Cabin 7," Mr. September instructed.

"Sounds go. We don't know how many more days of this weather we're going to get," Peter agreed.

"If Olivia and I finish early, we'll come over and help you stack the cords," Astrid offered as she put the fresh pancakes on a serving plate.

"That would do," Mr. September accepted.

Another batch of pancakes was quickly made and Astrid mixed up a new batter that contained a few tablespoons of curry powder and an incredible amount of freshly ground pepper. She poured a bit of the brilliant yellow mixture onto the griddle and the spicy scent wafted through the kitchen; she had a sudden craving for chicken tandoori from the Indian food place a block away from her Boston apartment and Mr. September breathed in deeply as well.

"Thank you for breakfast," he said politely, laying a napkin in his lap.

"Of course," she said, wondering when she'd finally get a bite to eat.

At least she didn't have to do the dishes—that was Dr. Bishop's job.

Approaching footsteps announced Olivia's arrival and Astrid did a double take at the sight of her new look.

"Your hair has changed," Mr. September said, his eyebrows raising.

Indeed Olivia's still wet hair had become a honey colour, much different than the deep brunette she had been sporting for sometime now. The former police officer blushed slightly, holding one the damp locks in front of her to inspect. "I dyed it back to its natural colour."

"I learned some very funny "blond jokes" back at St. Claire's," Dr. Bishop warned, looking quite delighted.

"Don't tease her because of her hair," Peter sighed, taking his plate over to the sink.

"I think you hair looks very nice, Liv," Astrid offered.

"Thank you, Astrid," she said, sitting down in the seat that Peter had just vacated. "Another day of hard work."

"The Fringe can handle it," Walter said, dropping a small bit of pancake on the floor for Whitman.

"PLEASE stop calling us that!" Peter snapped.

Walter scowled at his son, then turned to Olivia, looking quite mischievous.

"How many blondes does it take to change a lightbulb?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Title: **_Chapter 02_

**Chapter Genre:** _Family/Friendship, Humour, mild!Angst_

**Chapter Rating:** _T_

**Chapter Notes: **_Much thanks to the wonderful Nom DuClavier for helping me with the rough patches in the chapter. I know that guitars have holes in them :P_

**Song & Lyrics: **_"I Should Have Known Better" by She and Him_

**Story Description: **_Tioga Sunrise—"The only Pattern here is on Walter's paisley shirt."_

**Disclaimer:** _Does it really have to be said?_

* * *

Olivia Dunham, former Boston police officer and current fugitive, stepped out the front door of Cabin 14, a five gallon bucket filled with cleaning supplies in one hand, a mop in the other. She was wearing a hideous pair of overalls over a long-sleeved thermal shirt, her now-blonde hair held back with a bandana. She still wore her Heckler & Koch USP Compact strapped to her ankle and two extra magazines in her deep pockets.

As safe as she felt here, thousands of miles away from the danger that threatened them, she still lived in a state of paranoia. Any noise of a car sent her heart racing, any creaking floorboard made her jump. But Tioga Pass had already experienced its first closure and Olivia felt it was almost like a sign—everything bad that had been chasing them would have a hard time reaching them now. As she patiently waited on the cabin's front porch, she wondered if she ought to change her looks further. The month of September had already been spent altering appearances: Walter lost the beard, Peter was growing out his buzz cut, Astrid was wearing jeans and Olivia wasn't covering up her freckles. Now it was the early days of October and even with the blonde hair she had dyed this morning, she was contemplating maybe cutting it—

She spun around at the sound of the screen door opening, but her heart still raced when she saw it was Peter that had come out the porch to join her.

Peter Bishop was fascinating to her. He kept to himself about most things, though he was prone to explosive shouting matches with his father, though only when he thought she and Astrid couldn't hear them. He seemed troubled and while this kind of emotion would normally make her very uneasy, she could tell that his distress seemed to be the same as hers—inner conflict. This had resulted in them striking up a very cautious friendship. They discussed nothing of their pasts, revealed nothing of their inner selves, and stuck to small talk. Olivia liked having this no-expectations relationship with the soldier.

"Second Lieutenant" meant he had just stepped up into the army's officers fold, which meant he probably had been planning to continue climbing the military ranks before he "rescued" Walter, as he put it. Peter held a general contempt towards his father and Olivia hadn't quite pinpointed what had caused these strong feelings, other than a certain belief of betrayal. She wondered if it was because he had to leave the army or if it was more.

Peter stood next to her and he gave her friendly smile. "Astrid said she'll be just another minute. She's looking for her gloves," he said casually has he stood next to her, rolling up the sleeves to his thermal top.

"Well, I wish she'd hurry," Olivia said as she toyed with a stray lock of her new coif.

"I really like it," he said, gesturing to her hair.

"Good. I was afraid that it would look weird," she said, examining her hair.

"No, no, it's great," he insisted. "I was afraid it was going to be bleached crazy."

Olivia laughed. "I was afraid of that, too."

From around the side of the cabin Walter appeared with Mr. September.

"Come on, Peter!" Walter called out, motioning for the younger man to follow them as they walked over to Cabin 15.

Peter turned back to her and shrugged, still smiling. "I guess I'm off to play lumberjack with Walter and September."

"See you later, then," she said with a polite nod and turned to look back out towards the other cabins as he left her alone on the porch.

She didn't have to wait long for the sound of the screen door to shut behind her a second time.

"Sorry to make you wait," Astrid apologised, holding up a pair of yellow rubber gloves. "Walter hid my gloves in the Dutch oven."

Though the luxury cabins were books solid through the summer for exorbitant rates, this was not summer and aside from Cabin 14 and Cabin 15, it was eerily quiet from lack of people. Olivia and Astrid worked as housekeepers for Sunrise Cabins. It hardly seemed like now-abandoned cabins would need upkeep, but Mr. September insisted that a standard must be upheld or else mice, bats, and insects would move in during the colder months. Together the two women carried their cleaning supplies to Cabin 7, walking down the dirt road.

Astrid seemed uncomfortable with silence and began to speak. "I was thinking, if we made a run to Mariposa today, we could visit the thrift store and maybe buy some new jeans? I tore the knee on my dark blue pair and the duct tape I used to patch it up keeps getting stuck to my skin—"

"How do you feel about guns?" Olivia interrupted, kicking a dirt clod with her work boots.

"Do you think I should get one?" Astrid asked, sounding uncomfortable.

"It wouldn't hurt to be prepared," Olivia said, searching her pocket for the key to the cabin.

"I've got the key," Astrid said as she unlocked Cabin 7's door. "Well, I know how to use one and…do you really think someone could know we're here?"

"I…I don't think so," Olivia said as confidently as she could and together they entered the dark log building.

They began pulling open curtains because electricity had been shut off to all the unoccupied cabins and the morning light filled the dusty, quiet space. Olivia decided she was going to work on the floor while Astrid began to clean the windows.

Olivia leaned against her mop. "It's just…I mean…I don't think that Peter or Walter are dangerous, but we still don't know who we can trust."

Astrid sighed and paused in the cleaning of the glass panes. "This isn't about Mr. September again, is it?"

Olivia nodded guiltily. "Sorta—hand me that Orange Glo, please. I know you've told me that he's "cool", but—"

"Olivia, I swear to you that Mr. September can be trusted," the younger woman said as she fished the requested cleaner out of the cleaning supply bucket.

Olivia paused as she took the bottle of Orange Glo. "How can you be so sure?"

Astrid lowered her eyes and surrendered the wood cleaner. "I just know," she murmured.

The blonde narrowed her eyes. "What do you know, Astrid?"

Astrid bit her lower lip, looking conflicted. She spoke slowly. "I'll tell you when the time is right. Just believe me when I say that we can put our faith in his confidence."

Olivia sighed loudly as she continued mopping. "I just hate all this lying, and sneaking, and playing it safe. I wish I could start over."

"Olivia, every moment is a chance to start over. Nothing's stopping you from living the life you want to live." She smiled and pointed to spot by her feet. "You missed a spot."

"I hate John so much for getting us into this mess. I could be at my desk right now, working on reports and answering phone calls. I could have my own car, and a job protecting people." She savagely mopped the Orange Glo into the wood. "I'd have the town house and all my books and clothes, yet here I am! In the fucking forest, playing maid. I'm pissed that I left so much behind!" she snapped angrily.

Astrid remained silent and right away Olivia felt like a jackass. Upon fleeing Boston, they'd found Astrid's apartment building burned to the ground and Olivia had been lucky enough to grab the duffle bag of clothes and things out of her own home before they escaped. The younger woman had come here to California with absolutely nothing and here she'd at least managed to save some of her own personal belongings.

"Oh, Astrid. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking," Olivia apologized, feeling as though she were the worst person in the world.

Astrid gave her a gentle smile. "It's okay. When life hands you lemons—"

"You make lemonade?" she finished.

Astrid's smile broadened as she shook her head. "No. You paint them gold."

* * *

Walter brought the axe down sharply, letting out a happy shout as the piece of locust spilt in half and fell off the chopping block. He adjusted his safety glasses and searched for another piece of the yellow timber to split for the ever-growing stack firewood.

"Isn't this fun, Peter?" he asked, catching the axe with the chopping block.

Peter gave an irritated noise. "Yes, Walter. We've already established that you enjoy chopping wood."

He nodded, pleased, and wiped at his brow with the back of his shirtsleeve. A few weeks ago his arms and back ached at the repetitive chore, but now he was feeling muscle developing and it was becoming considerably easier to keep up with his son and his hairless friend. Walter spent most of his days chopping firewood alongside Peter and Mr. September. He enjoyed working outdoors in the general quiet and peace of nature and even though he'd much rather be working in a laboratory, this "man's man" work was a very good substitute.

"It's almost noon," the landlord said impassively and Walter looked down at his watch to confirm it.

"I am hungry," he announced.

"You're always hungry," Peter said snidely

"They only fed us swill at, uh, you know… "home"," Walter said, managing to catch himself in time before saying "St. Claire's.

He gave a nervous glance at Mr. September, whose attention was turned to the two women coming up the road. Good. His secret was safe for another day. Walter gave a weak smile to Peter, who looked at him reproachfully, then took off his safety glasses, wiping imaginary smudges off the lenses.

"We're hungry!" Olivia called out, carrying a blue bucket and a mop.

Walter was relieved someone shared his sentiment. "Me, too!"

"Did you guys want to break for lunch or do you guys want help stacking the wood?" the young lady with curly hair asked as she approached them.

"I'm ready to watch the news," September said without any emotion and carried his axe towards his cabin.

Peter raised an eyebrow at their bald neighbor, then turned his attention back to the women. "Lunch it is, then."

"Oh, uh, I'll be there in just a minute. I had to ask Mr. September about something," the young lady said before following their landlord.

Walter happily followed the other two towards the backdoor of their cabin; he was in the mood for sandwiches and possibly a tall glass of cold milk—

"Your boots are muddy. Leave them on the backstep," Peter instructed and he left out a sigh as he sat down on the concrete surface to unlace his work boots.

At least he could wander around the cabin in his wool socks, he thought as he shuffled into the kitchen where Olivia and his son were busy eating lunches they had started without him. Walter walked to their humming refrigerator and frowned at the piece of paper taped to the freezer door; it was Peter's list of rules that he said everyone had to follow but Walter knew they were mostly directed at him. _Number one, do not write on the walls. Number two, if something has instructions taped to it, FOLLOW THEM. Number three, Walt Whitman (the cat, not the poet) does not get people food._ Blah, blah, blah, rules, rules, rules.

Walter ransacked the fridge and pieced together a sandwich out a leftover salad Olivia had made a night or two ago. He enjoyed crunchy food, especially cold, crunchy food and the cucumber slices were wonderful to munch on while he crayoned a picture. One of the items he had managed to recover from between the seats of the Vista Cruiser was a little cardboard pack of Happy Meal crayons from years and years ago.

Olivia sat down next to him with her bowl of spinach and vinaigrette. She looked at the drawing he had made and asked, "What is that?"

He selected a blue crayon to draw the spiraling lines. "The Beacon."

She made a face as she looked closer at the symbol he had created. "The Beacon?"

He nodded as he encompassed the black oval in the ketchup red numbers of pi. "It's a symbol for us. All you have to do is draw it out and we'll know you're in need of help. Like the Masons. "Who shall help the widow's son?" That's their code to help one another, you know."

"So the Beacon is like our ideogram?" she asked with an amused smile and as much as he liked her, it irritated him.

"Yes. And if you can't draw it, you need to say, "Possibility is everything"," he said as he wrote the numbers quicker to calm himself. "That's our motto. For the Fringe."

She picked at her salad. "Why is that our motto, Walter?"

"Because we have to believe in possibility," he replied with a sigh.

At this, her face lit up. "Today Astrid told me that every moment is a chance to start over."

"Wise words," he agreed then looked over at her. "Who?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Astrid. Astrid Farnsworth?"

He scrunched his nose as he put the days date in the bottom right corner of the paper. "The girl who makes the pancakes?"

"Yes."

"She puts chocolate chips in my pancakes. She knows what she's talking about." He pushed the finished picture over to her. "Done. You may have it."

"Thank you, Walter," she said as she studied the symbol.

Peter, who never seemed to eat a proper meal, paused in the eating of half an apple. "Are you drawing that _thing_ again?"

Walter scowled at his son. "The Beacon, Peter. It's called the Beacon."

Peter made no effort to hide his eye rolling. "Put your crayons away. We're going to Mariposa—"

"Whee! Mariposa!" he shouted, jumping up from his seat at the kitchen island to run to their vehicle.

"Walter! Put your crayons _away_!" his son snapped.

Walter frowned. _Rule eight, put things back where they belong._ He trudged back over to the counter and gathered his things to take back to his bedroom.

Ah, his bedroom. The private haven he loved so much. There were many things in here that he had rescued from the Vista Cruiser, specifically books and he breathed in deep the scent of musty pages as he scanned the room.

A modest bed that had a remarkably comfortable mattress, with threadbare flannel sheets and an ugly-as-hell brown wool blanket. His pillow was perfectly lumpy and Walt Whitman's cushion rested partially on the nightstand next to his bed. The nightstand held many precious objects such as his crayons, a handful of river stones, a collection of origami frogs, a plastic baggie of penny nails, and a preserved butterfly he'd pulled out of the Vista Cruiser's grill.

There was a record player on the small desk beneath the window facing out towards the east. At bedtime, a strict 9:45 pm, he'd play an old children's record that once belonged to Peter; in St. Claire's he had had a roommate named Carlos who sang "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" every night at lights out and as much as Walter had grown to hate the song, he had to listen to it in order to fall asleep comfortably. The record's version had an irritating children's chorus, but Peter slept in another room and Walt Whitman refused to sing the song, so he was forced to settle with what he had.

The hand in the jar was hidden under his bed, tucked safely against the wall amid a slight layer of dust. Sometimes at night he could hear the fingernails tapping lightly against the glass and he would hang over the edge of the mattress, looking under the bed upside down.

"Shhh!" he'd say. "I'll talk to you in the morning. I need to sleep!"

Right now the hand was guarding the allowance he'd earned from doing his chores. A small white envelope underneath the glass jar contained the forty-nine dollars he had saved away for a rainy day and as sunny as this afternoon was, Walter was going to consider it the perfect opportunity to spend his money.

* * *

Olivia slapped her palm to her forehead and declared, "I forgot the drier sheets!"

"We're not heading back," Peter said flatly as they crossed into Mariposa county, the Vista Cruiser bouncing slightly as they went over a cattle guard.

He could see her frustrated face in the rearview mirror. "They're a quarter a piece at Big Suds though!"

"No!" he snapped.

Walter made marks on the passenger window with his fingers. "What do you suppose Walt Whitman is up to? Do you think he'll catch me a mouse?"

"I bought the groceries last time, it's someone else's turn," Astrid announced.

"Put ice cream bars on the list," Peter reminded.

"Maybe he'll catch me a vole! Could you cook that for him, Ostrich?" his father asked hopefully.

"Eww!"

"Walter, she'd not going to cook anything Whitman catches." Peter rolled his eyes, something he was finding out that he was doing quite often. "Astrid, I'll go get groceries this time. But you'll need to be specific on the list what exactly you want."

"Do-ri-tos," she sounded out as she wrote it.

"Those smell," his father whined.

"Do not," Astrid grumbled and Peter could see Olivia start to smile.

They pulled into the Texaco gas station next to the Laundromat and everyone got out of the Vista Cruiser. Peter fished out a few crumpled five dollar bills out of his jeans while Walter opened the door of the boot.

"Big Suds!" he sang and hoisted the bag of laundry into his arms.

Peter rolled his eyes again and handed Astrid the plastic baggie of quarters. "Can you get him started with that?"

"No problem," she said as she took her own laundry bag out and the two began walking off to the Laundromat.

"Olivia, do you mind cleaning the windows?" he quickly called out before the blonde left with his father and Astrid.

"Not at all. As official co-pilot, I take it as my responsibility," she said with a grin and a salute.

"Do you want to come pick up the groceries with me?" he asked casually as he selected the cheapest petrol selection and removed the nozzle from its holder.

"Sure, anything we're looking to pick up in particular, apart from voles and other rodents for Walter?" she called out as she scrubbed at the windshield.

He smirked. "Anything else that keeps him happy—I'll know it when I see it."

* * *

Their laundry now washing at Big Suds, Astrid and Walter decided to wander across the street to a thrift store called "Another Man's Treasure". While she didn't spend much time alone with the older Bishop man, she enjoyed his company the most. While he was, eh, _eccentric_, he was also very scholarly and she enjoyed playing trivia games with him; he usually beat her at science questions and she was much better with vocabulary and language. She wasn't sure if he enjoyed her company because she gave him food, and it was certainly irritating that he couldn't seem to remember her name, but in the long run it was the start of a friendship that she was beginning to like.

They wandered about the small store, looking at raggedy paperback romances and racks of stretched out t-shirts; Astrid also kept an eye out on Dr. Bishop as he came close to the shelves of mismatched cups; she didn't want him to become a bull in a china shop.

"Do we need a juicer?" he asked as he looked at the kitchenwares.

"No," she said as she pondered buying the Monopoly game sitting on the shelf.

"What about a Mr. Coffee?" he inquired.

The Monopoly game was missing all but two playing pieces and the cards looked like they had been crayoned. She frowned at this and answered, "No, we have a percolator already."

"Commemorative Pepsi glasses?"

"A guitar!" she gasped, snatching the instrument into her arms.

"S'gotta hole in it," the man at the counter called out.

She traced her fingers excitedly over the dented and weathered lacquered body and her mind raced to Willie Nelson's "Trigger", the guitar he used everywhere. The singer's fingers and picks had traveled so many times over the surface as he played that he had actually worn through the thin plywood. She imagined with glee that this guitar had been shown the same love at one time and now she was rescuing it from "Another Man's Treasure".

"How much is it?" she asked, tuning the strings.

"Thirty dollars."

Dr. Bishop wandered over to her and peered into the hole on the guitar's body. "You can play?"

Astrid beamed. "Yep."

* * *

Peter and Olivia arrived at the Pavillion's parking lot ten minutes after the car was gassed and the windows washed. Peter decided that he preferred having her riding shotgun and watching out for whomever it was that was chasing her over his father's company. He was quickly becoming paranoid on her behalf and idly speculated on what that meant when he was alone with her. He didn't want to make more of the events than was happening. She was just someone he could talk to without being held to impossible expectations.

The afternoon air was wonderfully mild and he was no longer wearing his thermals, but a t-shirt that had an artistic impression of a bear on it along with the words "Keep Yosemite Green." As he climbed out of Vista Cruiser, he found the sunglasses and hat he wore anytime he went out into public; he thought they looked stupid but he needed anything to make his appearance look different in places that had security cameras.

As he and Olivia began walking towards the supermarket, he noticed a man standing at the far end of the building, looking very suspicious. Peter pulled his ballcap down a little further and made sure his sunglasses were still snug while he watched him. A gangly teenage boy approached the man and the youth gave him a curt nod, sure to be missed had Peter not kept an eye out for this expected signal. Their hands passed against each other in an odd handshake and though h couldn't see it, he could tell they were slipping each other money and small plastic bags.

'_Drugs,'_ Peter thought to himself and wondered if he pointed it out to Olivia, she would act impulsively and follow her cop training, forgetting for a moment she was no longer an officer of the law.

"We don't have coupons, do we?" he asked quickly, hoping to distract her from the deal going down.

His mind was racing a mile a minute and he realised that man could present him with an opportunity—

Olivia gave a groan as she put on her sunglasses. "I completely forgot. They're still stuck to the fridge."

"No big deal. At least we remembered the cooler for the cold food," he said, trying to keep the nervous tone out of his voice, somewhat worried that she might read his mind.

"I wonder if people think we're tourists," she whispered with a conspiratorial grin as she pulled a cart out of the corral in front of the store.

"No doubt," he said with a smirk and looked at the neat list Astrid had written out for them.

"What the hell is kale?" Olivia asked as she looked at the paper.

"_Brassica oleracea acephala_," he said without a second thought until he noticed her surprised look. "Oh, uh, it's a type of dark leaved cabbage. I think it's what Astrid's been putting in the stir-fry."

"Oh," she stuttered as they began to explore the different aisles.

"That was kind of nerdy, huh?" he asked, uncertainly.

She shook her head. "Nerdy is memorising all the homework problems in your high school math class so you don't have to take the book home each night."

"Hah," Peter sniggered as he found the brand of salsa he liked. "Did you actually know a loser who did that?"

"Me."

He stared at her and a big grin spread across her face. "I like numbers," she said with a shrug.

"So you're some kind of math genius?" he asked, a little impressed.

"Hardly," she scoffed as she tossed a bag of Doritos into the cart. "I'm just good at memorisation."

"That's a skill many aren't blessed with," he said as he added a bag of tortilla chips.

Olivia nodded. "Comes in very useful when you work in law enforcement.

He turned the cart down another aisle. "So were you a cop? Or detective?"

"Detective," she said and he could hear the hint of pride as she said it.

"And John…?"

Instantly her talkative demeanour changed. She snatched a Yuban canister off a shelf. "He was a detective, too. Do we need more coffee?"

"Oh, I, uh, yes we could use more coffee." He stumbled over his words, feeling bad for making her uncomfortable.

"I'll go find the ice cream bars," she said, her voice strained, and hurried away from him.

* * *

Peter and Olivia returned to Big Suds to find Astrid sitting on top of one of the washing machines, strumming a guitar.

"Where'd you get a guitar?" Peter asked and Olivia snickered.

"At the thrift store," Astrid replied and gave a dramatic twang on the instrument.

"There's a hole in it," Peter pointed out.

"I know." She strummed the strings and began to sing. "Oh, whoa, _Iiiiiiii_ should have known better with a guy like you! That I would love everything that you do! And I do, hey, hey, hey and I _dooooo_!"

"If this being on the run thing doesn't pan out, you could always become a singer," Olivia said with a grin.

"Thank you, thank you. I'll be here _all_ afternoon."

Olivia was fairly certain that she saw Peter fight a smile as he went to move his bag of laundry to one of the washing machines.


End file.
